


waterways

by uraa



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, pianist mikleo, theyre all really big fuckin nerds!!!!!, violinist sorey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uraa/pseuds/uraa
Summary: Mikleo's dream is to be a professional pianist, but his stage fright keeps him from performing well. For some reason, Sorey, the most talented violinist Mikleo's ever encountered at his high school, is determined to change that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> a warning: this is a REALLY REALLY self-indulgent, personal, (and nerdy) piece for me so im not exactly sure how enjoyable it is to read?? i have a 'fuck it' attitude with this fic which is why its not beta'd or heavily edited or anything, its 100% for my own enjoyment but i hope someone else out there might enjoy it too!!
> 
> i linked the pieces mikleo plays in scenes one & two in the end notes, but i also recommend listening to them while you read the scenes, if you want! :>

_Breathe, Mikleo_  tells himself. _Holy fuck, you can do this. Breathe._

It’s not helping. It’s been five minutes of frantically deep breaths and he’s still sweating, shaking, and, if he’s being honest with himself, on the verge of tears. There’s a jitter in his right knee that’s been going on for a while now; he can tell by the shake in the edge of the sheet music that rests on it. Mikleo can feel the person sitting beside him looking at it, but they turn away quickly when Mikleo glances over.

No one seems to be as nervous as he is.

They’re all waiting in silence for their names to be called, and then they rise, one by one, to take their place at the piano bench. The performances before him are doing nothing to quiet his nerves. He recognizes pieces more often than not and tries to let himself relax when he hears his favorites, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s just flat-out terrified.

 _You know this piece,_ he tells himself, _how many hours did you spend practicing?_ But he also knows that nerves undo about a week of practice, that you’ll always be worse in performance than you were in a lesson or a rehearsal. He doesn’t want to sound like he did a week ago--that had been rough. His mom and his teacher are in the audience, and they both know what he’s capable of. He doesn’t want to disappoint them.

Mikleo hadn’t bothered to get a copy of the program beforehand, so he’s largely in the dark about when he’ll be called to play. He wishes he had, now, since his anxiety is peaking every time one pianist leaves the stage. He’s honestly about to leave for the bathroom and stay inside a stall, sweating, until the competition is over, when he hears the first syllables of his name being called.

“Mikleo Rulay,” says the disembodied voice over the speakers, “playing Liebetraum No. 3 in A-Flat Major, by Franz Liszt.”

 _Fuck,_ thinks Mikleo, _right when I was actually about to quit, too._ The applause that rises up around him sounds distant and muffled. He stands up, clutches his sheet music, and makes his way to the stage. The lights are hot and yellow and uncomfortably bright. He places his sheet music on the stand, sits down, adjusts the bench. He feels like he’s taking too long to start, but the distance of the bench is just a little off--he doesn’t want to start playing and then regret it later.

The silence in the audience is expectant. After what seems like ages, he takes a breath and lifts his hands to the keys. His fingers are shaking, they feel unreliable, and Mikleo’s glad that the piece starts off simply.

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this,_ he thinks, and presses the E-flat that begins the piece.

He’s perched unsteadily on top of a huge, roiling wave of nerves, hitting the right notes, but just barely. His hands haven’t stopped shaking, and he’s already to the measure of fast, ornamental notes before the key change and he hasn’t settled into the piece yet. It’s bad, but he has no choice but to continue.

He’s about halfway through the measure when a finger slips and the cloud of complementary notes immediately derails into discordance. Mikleo winces, tries to line the chords up, but it’s not until the end of the cadenza that he really regains control again.

His heart is thudding so loudly in his ears that it’s drowning out the sound of the piano. _You’ve got this_ , he thinks, but by now it’s more of a mantra of denial than of encouragement. It’s when he slips up on notes and rhythms that should be easy--that he had played countless times over--that dread really begins to sink in.

Mikleo wonders if the audience can see his chest heaving from their seats. As he misses notes again and again, the dread swallows up his lungs and grows so big and heavy that it feels like he can’t breathe. He can’t do this. He was stupid to think that he could ever do something like this.

His hands feel like they’re made of lead on the keys. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He could never do this.

It takes him a second to realize that he’s stopped playing altogether.

Mikleo hears murmurs from the audience and bites his lip, hard, to keep himself from crying. He almost considers standing up right there, and leaving the stage with half the piece still left to play. But the innate stubbornness in him disagrees. He forces himself to look up to his music.

His inhale is so shaky and uncertain that he doesn’t know if it qualifies as a breath. He sees the notes he needs to play, and presses down on the keys. The rest of the piece passes by in a blur, mostly because his attention is more focused on trying not to have a breakdown on stage than the music. He feels a sob catch in his throat when he lifts his hands from the final chord and hears the waves of applause roll over the stage. He doesn’t wait for it to subside before he hurries from the harsh, demanding spotlight.

“I’m really proud of you, Mikleo,” his mom whispers to him as he passes by her seat.

He only lets himself cry once he’s out of the auditorium.

 

* * *

 

_Okay, again._

Mikleo rolls his shoulders, hearing knots tight enough to click against the bones. He positions his hands on the keys and starts the passage over.

_Okay, again._

His index finger slips and one of the notes doesn’t sound. Mikleo’s mouth twists.

_Okay, again._

He’s going too fast. The eighth notes of the melody fit neatly under his fingers, and his left hand can’t keep up. Lack of concentration is making his pace jumpy and uneven.

_Okay, again._

Mikleo slips into a sort of half-trance state, still playing and still eyeing the markings he had written into his music last night. He can feel his eyes start to droop, and the notes blur as exhaustion settles in. He reaches the end of the piece, takes a breath.

_Okay, again._

_Okay, again._

_Okay, again._

At some point, hearing the sound of the A-minor arpeggio that begins the piece becomes something akin to death. Mikleo slumps on the bench and lets his forehead rest against the lid of the grand piano. He closes his eyes.

It hurts. The edge of the piano is digging into his skin.

Mikleo heaves himself up again and closes the book of sheet music. For a moment he plucks out a few chords as he thinks of his homework and revising his history essay, but he glances at the clock on the wall and closes the lid of the piano. The finish on it is liquid and glossy, and it reflects the light of the dull winter sunset. Mikleo wants to rub his hands all over it, feel the smooth, slight resistance under his fingers, but he knows it would smudge. He wants to eat it, actually, but that’s firmly crossing the line between passion and obsession.

He’s never done either. He’s good at impulse control.

He tucks the thin volume of Bach inventions between the binders and books in his backpack. By now the edges of it are curled and beaten, and the insides scrawled over with pencil markings. Mikleo’s handwriting is neat, and for any other subject his notes would be organized and clean. But music is different—a page where there were as many scribbles in graphite as notes in ink was something to be proud of.

His teacher had forced him to play the inventions and he had done so grudgingly at first, but over time, they’ve grown on him. What he had written off as simple and boring has become nuanced and lively with practice. _People don’t realize the worth of inventions,_ Mikleo thinks as he walks out of the chorus room. _Just because Bach didn’t write in any expression markings doesn’t mean you have to play it without them._ The music is still running through his head as he exits the building into the biting wind. It’s getting dark, and the cold has chased away the students that would normally linger after clubs and sports. The only sound is the wind rushing painfully against his ears as looks out over the brown, dead grass of the football field. It’s cold—but the expectant sort of cold. Maybe it’ll snow tonight.

Mikleo pulls his scarf up over his mouth and hunkers down for his walk home. His backpack feels warm against his back in contrast to the air outside, and it’s the only comfortable thing on him at the moment. His whole body is tense with the effort of suppressing shivers, but he forces himself to start walking. Or running. Maybe he would warm up if he ran.

He manages a few seconds of an awkward half-jog before he gives up. He’s not even off campus and already winded and cold and in pain. His piano lesson is tomorrow and he hasn’t practiced his parallel tenths scales. They’ll probably have a pop quiz in English this week but he doesn’t want to study. He’s _tired_. And he wants the invention out of his head.

He's staring at his feet as he walks by the band room when a few soaring notes come drifting from the half-open window. Mikleo’s honestly not sure if it’s the biting wind of the clarity of the sound that’s making his ears ache—he’s never heard anything this clean and natural-sounding outside of recordings.

He stops walking. The violinist who’s playing is _good—_ legitimately good. They’re the kind of good that sounds like they wouldn’t be out of place in a concert hall. It’s rare to find someone who has the talent and actually intends to pursue music as a career at Hyland, and the music teachers have fairly low standards, even though the school has a self-proclaimed “arts focus”. It’s not that different from a regular high school, except for the fact that they have more electives to choose from than most. Most people who play music here are decent at best.

Mikleo’s in an odd category himself--his dream is to play professionally, but it’s just that: a dream. He’s not perfect or incredibly talented, but he’s also a level above most students in their piano club--a club because they don't actually have a piano department. Compared to them, he’s a talented musician. In the real world of classical music, though, he’s nothing.

But even though Mikleo knows next to nothing about violin, he’s willing to be that this player is something of a prodigy. He’s overheard enough orchestra practices to understand that playing stringed instruments is much harder than it looks, so to hear playing so effortless at school is almost mind-blowing.

His mom is expecting him at home, and that he has enough homework that he shouldn’t have stayed after school to practice in the first place. But the violinist is still playing, drawing out notes so pure and beautiful that they sound like spun gold in the frigid air, and he finds himself moving to re-enter the building. Mikleo closes the door gently behind him, afraid to disturb the spell the violinist is casting over the hallway. The music isn’t any less beautiful inside. He lingers just beside the door of the band room, presses himself to the wall and closes his eyes. It’s only after several minutes have gone by that he allows himself to glance around the corner at the person inside.

Whoever it is has their back turned to him. There’s a stand full of sheet music in front of them, and they sway slightly with the music, bow drawing fluidly across the strings. They’re wearing a faded hoodie and converse and orange feathered earrings that should be the object of ridicule—but instead they look _cool_. Mikleo stares at their fingers, flying across the strings.

The violinist stops abruptly, going back to play a passage a few times over, then fumbles their bow as they reach for a pencil. Mikleo jumps at the _tock_ of the wood against the stand and scrambles away from the door. He’s screaming inside as his feet catch on an empty music stand, and it almost looks like slow motion as it falls to the floor with a gigantic _clang_. In the silence of the hallway it sounds as loud as a gunshot.

There’s a heavy silence.

“Hello?” calls the violinist.

Mikleo winces. He hears how nice the word sounds and knows his emotions are already heightened from hearing a decent player at school, and he tells himself it’s unreasonable to get a crush from that alone. The violinist’s voice sounds exactly like the instrument they play—rich, warm, clear, and kind. Mikleo’s heartbeat is thudding frantically in his chest, and a response is leaping in his throat, but the words aren’t coming out.

“Hello?” says the violinist again. “Uh… is someone there?”

He can hear the bow and violin being set down, footsteps coming towards the door. For a moment Mikleo considers walking into the room, complimenting their playing, introducing himself.

But it only takes a fraction of a second for him to make up his mind. He backs towards the door and slips out quietly, burning with shame and panic and sweating buckets.

Then he bolts.

 

* * *

 

“Rose, what period do you have orchestra?”

“Fifth,” says Rose around a mouthful of pizza. “Why? Are you finally doing a piece with us? Because you should definitely rehearse with my class, not Alisha’s.”

Mikleo’s laugh turns into a snort, which he immediately regrets. “I wish. I was just wondering if there were any really good violinists in your class. Like, really good. Actually good.”

Around them, the cafeteria buzzes with activity. Someone’s trying to start a fight in the corner, and most people are gathered around to watch. Alisha’s buried in homework, though, and out of solidarity, Mikleo and Rose are only watching from their seats.

Rose laughs. “By classical standards? At Hyland?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, no one in my class,” says Rose. “Our first chair is decent, though. Why’re you asking?”

“I just heard someone playing yesterday, when I was walking home. In the band room. Probably around four thirty.”

Rose’s eyebrows raise. “And they were that good?”

“I’ve never heard anyone as polished on any instrument here. I don’t know if any of the _teachers_ are that good. It was good enough to be a prodigy.”

Rose whistles. “High praise, coming from you. You’re sure it wasn’t like… a recording or something?”

“No, I saw them playing, it was definitely real-”

“Hold on,” Alisha interrupts, lifting her head from her statistics textbook, “are you talking about Sorey? He’s in my orchestra class, third period, and he’s really good--miles above the rest of us, and I don’t see any shame in admitting that.”

Rose rolls her eyes, over-emphasizing the movement. “Guess who finally decided to join the party.”

Alisha holds her gaze for a few moments, looking uncertain, before Rose breaks into a grin and she pokes Alisha in the ribs. “C’mon, ‘Lish, I was joking.” Mikleo almost winces with sympathy. Rose’s pokes are _hard_.

True to form, Alisha squeaks and flinches away. “I’m just trying to get ahead in my reading! I’m really busy this week!”

“You could do it in class. And you’re not even behind! You’re making us all look lazy-”

“Does- does Sorey have brown hair?” Mikleo asks, before Rose can really get started.

“Yes,” says Alisha, “and feathered earrings. I think he’s new this year, since I never heard anything about him before.”

“Oh- _oh!_ ” says Rose, and Alisha and Mikleo share a look, the action practiced from years of listening to Rose’s admittedly questionable ideas. “Hush,” she says, before either can say anything, “It’s a good idea. I was thinking you two should do a duet or something… for showcase? You’ve never done showcase before.”

“Showcase?” Mikleo repeats, briefly entertaining the idea. He imagines Sorey and himself on the stage of the auditorium, the smooth keys of the concert grand under his hand, the sound soaring over the audience. But actually performing is much different from that fantasy, and Mikleo remembers shaking, sweaty hands and missed notes, and winces. “He’d make me look like a toddler. I’m nowhere near as good as him.”

“Mikleo,” says Alisha disapprovingly, as Rose reaches across the table to smack him with her plastic fork.

“It’s just fact!” Mikleo protests. “I’m not being negative. Alisha, you’ve heard him, isn’t he good?”

“He’s very good,” says Alisha diplomatically, “but I don’t think that’s a reason why you shouldn’t want to play with him.”

“I couldn’t,” says Mikleo. “I don’t want to. He’d be better off playing a solo.”

“But you’ve never done showcase before. You should make your debut--and it’s supposed to represent the music departments as a whole, so people from different departments do collabs all the time.”

“Except we don’t have a piano department,” says Mikleo. “I don’t know if they’d even let me in. Seriously, I don’t want to. There’s a reason why I haven’t tried to do showcase before.”

“What reason?” Rose eyes him suspiciously.

“Uh, the fact that I’m the worst performer I’ve ever encountered in my life?”

“Mikleo,” Alisha chides, “everyone has bad performances. It doesn’t mean you’re bad _at_ performances. Is this... about your last competition?”

“No.” Mikleo’s gaze drops to his sandwich, and he can feel his face heating with discomfort. He picks at a corner of the whole-wheat bread. “You’ve never heard me perform, right, Alisha?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean-”

“If you had, you wouldn’t be trying to make me feel better.” Mikleo glances up to intercept a sad look from Alisha, and smiles--she really is the angel of their friendgroup. “Thanks, though.”

“I think you should try it,” she says resolutely. “We all want to hear you play. _We_ could do a trio, if there’s anything for piano, violin, and flute.”

Rose is busily finishing off her second slice of pizza. “Yeah, and he would leave me in the dust. Maybe you and him, Alisha, you’re both good.”

Alisha laughs. “Thank you, but don’t count yourself out. It wouldn’t be the same without all of us. Mikleo, you could come over to practice. No one uses our piano anyways, and it would be good to run things as much as we can. You could practice your solo pieces too, I’m sure everyone would enjoy listening.”

Mikleo blanches at the thought of just sitting there practicing, with Alisha’s entire family listening in. Even though Alisha’s house is huge, and her family is too, he’s not sure he would want to deal with even one person listening to him play. Their piano, a gleaming Model B Steinway with a bench that’s never had its dust jacket removed, is the stuff of his dreams, but he wouldn’t dare to even touch it. Alisha’s family is rich, actually rich, and he always gets intimidated every time he goes over.

“Thanks, Alisha, but I don’t think I’m doing showcase. Maybe some other time.”

Alisha deflates. “Alright, Mikleo, it’s your choice. But let me know if you-”

“Hold up,” Rose interrupts, and her head swivels to the corner with the fight. “I thought I just heard- do you see Zaveid in there?”

Mikleo shrugs. “There’s something light green. Could be Dezel, though, I don’t have my contacts in.”

“It looks kind of like Zaveid,” says Alisha, “the hair is right. I didn’t know he had a leather jacket, though.”

“It’s _Zaveid_ ,” says Mikleo, “of course he has a leather jacket. It probably smells like fake leather and bad cologne and cigarettes.”

Alisha laughs, but Rose just sighs with all the weariness a pair of seventeen-year-old lungs can muster. “Fuck, you’re right,” she says, “Dezel wouldn’t fight. Sorry, ‘Lish, I should be there to bail him out if he needs me.”

Alisha smiles a little uncertainly. “No problem. Don’t get suspended again.”

“I’ll try,” says Rose as she scrambles from the cafeteria table. The noise of the fight doubles in volume as she slips into the crowd. Mikleo and Alisha glance at each other, hold their gaze for a second, and both devolve into nervous giggles.

“She’ll be banned from performing if she gets caught again,” says Alisha, a note of hopelessness in her voice. “But Rose is Rose.”

Mikleo agrees, but only half of him is really present. He should be a good friend and worry about Rose, but really, he’s just glad that the subject’s changed.

 

* * *

  

The Liebestraum is staring him down from its place in his backpack.

It’s like it actually has eyes. Mikleo feels an uncomfortable prickling down his spine, the kind that happens when you’re being watched. He glares at his backpack and deliberately turns his attention back to the piano and the etude that he’s focusing on right now. He sighs as he runs through the right hand again--he’s honestly tired of it, now, as fun as playing the glittering swaths of sixteenth notes had been in the beginning. It’s only been a few days since he started, and if he pushes it too quickly, the jumps between notes are difficult and hurt his fingers. _If I had bigger hands, this wouldn’t be so difficult,_ Mikleo thinks irritably. _Why couldn’t I have been born with bigger hands?_ He’s flexible, though, and his reach is actually decent, probably from growing up with fingers constantly stretched to reach notes on pieces that were meant for hands bigger and more mature than his. He should consider himself lucky that he has that, at least.

He’s just so bored. He could go back to the Bach invention, but he’s basically ready to move on from that piece, anyway. Maybe he should just stop for the day.

Mikleo stands and stretches, feeling the pop of bones and the press of his thighs against the piano as he shifts. He gathers his sheet music and slips it into his backpack, and he’s about to zip it up when the cover of the Liebestraum makes him pause. He’s bored, he’d rather play something instead of just going home early, and he knows the piece. It would be easy. Enjoyable, even.

Mikleo pulls out the music with a sigh and opens to the first page. The spidery black notes, scrawled over in pencil, stare back at him menacingly. He sits back down at the bench, telling himself he doesn’t care, and plays the opening notes before he’s even really settled. But true to his nature, he can’t play a piece he spent months learning deliberately badly. He starts shaping the phrases, puts care into it, and finds his rhythm quickly.

It’s going fine, actually, until the first cadenza comes up. Mikleo feels himself sweating as he approaches it, wills his fingers not to shake, and throws himself into the notes anyway. His finger slips, once, but Mikleo ignores it and keeps playing. It’s the second time that he makes a mistake that it all comes rushing back--the hot lights of the stage, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, the whispering of the crowd as he stops playing. He tries to push through it, to keep going, but it’s only a few more seconds before he lifts his hands from the keys altogether. He knows he’s probably making some kind of awful face, and he lets himself sit there for a moment, letting the shame wash over him.

“Why’d you stop?”

Mikleo jumps violently, elbow hitting the keys with a low clank. He feels shock and adrenaline freeze his limbs, and his heart is stuttering as he turns to look behind him. He knows that voice.

He’s never seen Sorey’s face before, but there’s a first time for everything. It’s a very nice face--he has kind, open eyes, full lips, and a curious expression. His feather earrings bob in the light blow of the vent above the doorway.

“Sorry,” Sorey says, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Or- I wasn’t listening in on your practice the whole time, I promise! I just didn’t want to interrupt in the middle of a piece-”

“It’s fine,” says Mikleo, taking a deep breath. “You just scared me for a second.”

“I’m really sorry about that.” Sorey scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s my bad. My friends always tell me I’m too forward.”

“Really, it’s okay,” says Mikleo, swiveling around on the piano bench. He brushes a piece of hair from his forehead nervously. What was Sorey doing here? Mikleo had seen him practicing in the band room before, a whole long hallway away.

“Why _did_ you stop, though?” Sorey asks. “Oh- you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to! It’s just that you’re really good, and it sounded really nice… I didn’t know we had such good pianists at our school!”

“Oh,” says Mikleo, “thank you.” He’s almost not processing the compliment, still a bit shocked from Sorey’s sudden intrusion. He hopes he can get by without answering--Sorey did say it was alright if he didn’t want to. “Did you need anything?”

True to his word, Sorey doesn’t press the question. “I couldn’t find a tuner in the band room,” he says, “and I knew the chorus room had a piano, so I just thought I’d use that-- I didn’t know anyone would be playing it, though!”

Mikleo smiles. “You can come in,” he says. “What note do you need?”

“Just an A,” says Sorey, walking towards the piano. For the first time Mikleo sees the bow and violin in his hand, the wood looking rich and warm even under the harsh classroom lights. He waits until Sorey tucks the violin under his chin to play the note, and the sound of the piano is overshadowed by Sorey’s violin as he tunes. His hands are deft as he adjusts the pegs, fluttering from the bottom to the top of the instrument.

“Thanks,” he says as he finishes, “sorry to interrupt your practice, um…” He flounders for a name for a second before his expression lights up. “We never introduced ourselves, did we? I’m Sorey!”

 _I know who you are,_ Mikleo thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. “I’m Mikleo. Nice to meet you.”

Sorey’s eyes widen. “Mikleo? Wait, do you know Alisha?”

“Yeah,” says Mikleo, “she’s a good friend of mine.”

“She was talking about you in class!” says Sorey. “She said you were really good, and honestly I didn’t believe her, since people overrate pianists all the time, but- you are. Really good, I mean.”

Mikleo tries hard not to flush. “Thank you, really. You are too, so that’s a huge compliment.”

Sorey smiles. “You’ve heard me?”

Mikleo tries his best not to let the sudden bolt of panic that goes through him show _._ For all he knows, Sorey never found out who had knocked over the music stand during his practice, and Mikleo would really prefer to keep it that way. “Uh, yeah,” he says, “I heard you practicing a few days ago, through the window.”

“Oh, wow.” Sorey glances away, a half-embarrassed look on his face. “How’s that for first impressions. I’m a lot better in performance.”

Mikleo feels a stab of jealousy, but pushes it down. It’s _good_ that Sorey can perform well, since he actually has the talent to go professional. It’s good that he won’t be hindered that way. “Well, you’ve listened to me practice,” he says, “so I guess we’re even.”

Sorey laughs. “True. And we both think the other is good, right?” He pauses. “Well, thanks for helping me tune, Mikleo. I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” says Mikleo, and returns the wave Sorey gives as he walks to the door and disappears around the corner. He stares at the keys of the piano for a few moments before he stands up and packs his bag. He feels like there was something more to the conversation, something else that they could have talked about. He _wants_ there to be something more to talk about.

“Um, Mikleo!”

Mikleo jumps for the second time that day and whirls around to see Sorey back in the doorway, breathing heavily. He resists the urge to clutch his chest.

“You’re back,” he says.

Sorey laughs nervously. “This is a little… weird…” he says, “but Alisha was telling me that you were looking for a partner for showcase.”

“She- she did?” Mikleo thinks he might actually strangle her at lunch, despite her good intentions. He bets that Rose put her up to it.

“Well, I’m looking for a partner too!” Sorey continues. “Not an accompanist, but like… an actual duet partner. I’ve never played a duet with a different instrument before.”

Mikleo knows where this is going. “Sorey-”

“I think you’re a really good pianist!” Sorey says, his eyes wide and pleading from the doorway. “And even though I don’t have any experience with duets, I learn fast! So- I know we don’t know each other, but it just seems like it would be a really good match. If you want to.”

Mikleo _does_ want to, that’s the thing. He loves to play piano. He loves the way Sorey plays violin. He even thinks they would sound good together, in rehearsal, at least. But Sorey is so amazing, so blindingly talented, and it sounds like he actually enjoys performing. Mikleo’s never had a good performance in his life, and he’s come to hate it. His last competition was a prime example--he could barely even play the Liebestraum _today_ without having a nervous breakdown. Sorey is honestly better off without him. He would just drag him down.

He knows what he has to do.

“I’m- I’m really sorry,” he says. “I think Alisha must have told you wrong. I’m not doing showcase this year.”

Sorey visibly deflates. “Oh- are you too busy? I promise practice wouldn’t take that much time, at least not more than what you’re doing right now-”

“It’s not really an issue of time,” says Mikleo as firmly as he can. “I can’t be your duet partner, sorry. I’m sure there’s someone else better then me, though; I’m sure they’d be willing to play with you.”

He grabs his backpack and closes the piano’s lid. He tries not to look at Sorey’s crestfallen expression as he brushes past him in the doorway. “I’m really sorry,” he says again. “Um. See you around.”

Even though he knows it’s for the best, he can’t shake the bitter disappointment that curls around his chest as he walks home.

**Author's Note:**

> pieces mikleo plays: [first scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIsKNCaBjmU) [second scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPxs3np5oJo)
> 
> thanks so much for reading!!! im gonna try and update soon (hopefully)!! and if you enjoy classical sormik, i just discovered [this](http://8tracks.com/shegry/this-is-our-world) playlist today and im honestly in love


End file.
